


Loving you is the most beautiful thing I have ever done

by Onceuponadisneypotter



Series: Loving you is the most beautiful thing I have ever done [2]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Jaskier is long dead, M/M, Mention of Ciri, Mention of Roach, Poet's Corner, Unrequited Love, mention of Yennefer, no beta we die like renfri
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-23
Updated: 2020-06-23
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:08:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24882076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Onceuponadisneypotter/pseuds/Onceuponadisneypotter
Summary: Geralt finds Jaskier's journal, hidden away in the library of Kaer Morhen. With it, he makes an interesting discovery.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Loving you is the most beautiful thing I have ever done [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1800448
Comments: 67
Kudos: 291
Collections: Interesting Character and/or Interesting Relationship Development





	Loving you is the most beautiful thing I have ever done

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Im_BadWolf](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Im_BadWolf/gifts).



> Although I guess you can technically read this as a stand-alone work, I would recommend you read the first work of this duology first. 
> 
> This fic was inspired by a comment left by Im_BadWolf on 'Jaskier is happy. Truly, he is.'

It had been Ciri’s idea to finally clean out the library. With hers and Yennefer’s magic combined, they had finished the regular chores and repairs of Kaer Morhen in record time, and there was only so much training one could do. So, the people in the castle were slowly driving themselves and each other up the walls. Ciri, in an attempt to distract herself, had visited the library for some reading. Whilst looking for a good book she had stumbled upon some incredibly outdated texts, with ancient maps every child in the Continent could see were inaccurate. So the plan was made: for the next weeks, everyone would sort through their own assigned section of the library, dust and clean the shelves, check which books should be sold, burned or otherwise disposed of, and rearrange the books that deserved their spot on Kaer Morhen’s shelves. 

It was because of these circumstances that Geralt grabbed a book titled _The History and Excellence of the Nilfgaardian Harp_ which seemingly had been collecting dust for a literal decade, and it was because of that circumstance that Geralt felt a sudden jolt of pain on his toe as a different book, hidden behind the one now in his hand, fell on his foot. It did not have a title on the cover, and as Geralt opened it, he noticed it was not a book at all. It was a hand-written journal. He stepped closer to the window, placing the history book on the ‘to be discarded’ pile without a second look, and began to read.

The handwriting was familiar, but Geralt did not have to recognise it in order to know who owned it. In gorgeous letters, the first page declared that this was the personal journal of Jaskier the Bard, and that all who read it without his permission should be struck with apoplexy and die. Geralt smiled, remembering how the bard had continually wished Valdo Marx would suffer the exact same fate. Seeing as Jaskier had been dead for - Geralt barely remembered. Fifteen years? Twenty? Regardless, he assumed that it was safe for him to continue reading.

The first pages were unassuming. They were filled with notes about, what were apparently, Geralt’s old contracts whilst travelling with Jaskier. A simple date, location and description of the creature, followed by the time Geralt had left, time he had returned and payment he had received. The notes were sprinkled throughout with random lyrics, descriptions, as well as comparisons to previous contracts Geralt had apparently fulfilled. After the listed payment for a certain Kikimore Geralt had slain, Jaskier had written, with several exclamation marks, that this payment was trice as high as Geralt had received a previous year a few day’s ride away from the village they had been in. Other notes mentioned random names, descriptions of relations and, what Geralt could only conclude, was random village gossip. One page was mysteriously filled with tiny numbers in a seemingly random order, another few with frantically drawn music. 

Geralt was about to toss the journal on the ‘discarded’ pile as his eye fell on a page he accidentally he flipped open. Unlike the administrative notes of Geralt’s contracts, or the quickly penned down lyrics, this page was written in the neat, slanted, Oxenfurt-taught handwriting that reminded him of Ciri’s. The ink was partially smudged from what seemed like waterdrops, but the slightly faded ink on the yellowed pages was still clearly legible. 

_Damn it, Jaskier!  
_ _Why is it whenever I find myself in a pile of shit these days, it's you shovelling it?  
_ _The Child Surprise, the djinn, all of it!  
_ _If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands._

Geralt frowned, He flipped the page back, and his suspicions were confirmed. In the usual, messy, enthusiastic handwriting that had taken up the journal so far, Jaskier had written about this ‘old man named Borch, accompanied by two _stunning_ ladies’ who had invited Geralt for a dragon hunt. The word ‘dragon’ was underlined multiple times, and accompanied by a crude drawing of a dragonhead spewing fire. Geralt leafed through the rest of the journal. Page after page after page after page, the same words greeted him, over and over and over.

_Damn it, Jaskier!  
_ _Why is it whenever I find myself in a pile of shit these days, it's you shovelling it?  
_ _The Child Surprise, the djinn, all of it!_

 _If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands.  
_ _Damn it, Jaskier! Why is it whenever I find myself in a pile of shit these days, it's you shovelling it? The Child Surprise, the djinn, all of it! If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands._ _Damn it, Jaskier! Why is it whenever I find myself in a pile of shit these days, it's you shovelling it? The Child Surprise, the djinn_

Where, on the first pages, the handwriting was large and round, starting at a new line after every punctuation mark, the further Geralt read the smaller and crampier the handwriting became, the lines following one after another without any blank space to separate them. It was as if Jaskier had wanted to be able to write these lines as often as possible before the journal ran out of pages. And, Geralt considered, looking at the differently coloured ink and seemingly different quills used, this was most likely the case. Jaskier had evidently returned to the journal over and over again, writing these lines at different moments throughout the years.

As he reached the last page, however, the words changed. Again in the regular, Oxenfurt-taught handwriting, Jaskier had written:

_Loving you is the most beautiful thing I have ever done  
_ _You deserve beauty  
_ _You deserve to be cared for  
_ _The love of the one you really want  
_ _You’re the love of my life  
_ _And I guess_

Here Geralt could again see the same water-damage as before

_And I guess it’s alright that I’m not yours_

Geralt frowned. He wondered who this text could be about, and why they were the last words on the pages bound in the journal, instead of another repeat of the same words that took over more than half of the book in his hands. But next to it, carefully sewn in to become a part of the binding, was a different page. The paper was different, newer than the rest. On it, rather than words, was a beautiful drawing of Geralt, Yennefer, a young Ciri and Roach’s nose. The picture simply radiated happiness. The broad smiles on the three faces made it seem like someone just told the most hilarious joke, and they looked - they looked like a family. It was honestly a beautiful, true-to-life drawing, and, if the signature at the bottom was to be believed, the bard had been more talented than Geralt had thought.

As he moved to rip it out of the journal, Geralt noticed something drawn on the back of the paper: Jaskier’s face, mirrored, with above in equally mirrored text. Geralt flipped back to the drawing of him, Yennefer, Ciri and Roach on the other side, moving closer to the window to hold it up in the light. It revealed a complete drawing of the five of them, happy, accompanied by the words

_If Destiny had willed it so._

Geralt stared at the picture for a long time. Was that really what the bard had wanted? For them to be so happy together? He had always assumed Jaskier had hated Yennefer, although it was true he was close with Ciri. He looked back at the text on the opposite page

_Loving you is the most beautiful thing I have ever done  
_ _You deserve beauty  
_ _You deserve to be cared for  
_ _The love of the one you really want  
_ _You’re the love of my life  
_ _And I guess it’s alright that I’m not yours_

and frowned. Had Geralt completely misunderstood and had Jaskier been in love with Yennefer? He stared at the picture again.

In the fading sunlight, he could still make out one curious thing. Jaskier, in his drawing, was wearing a ring. The bard had never worn a ring, Geralt vaguely remembered him saying that it interfered with lute playing. Why would he have drawn himself wearing such a hinder to his craft? His eyes scanned the picture once more and blinked in surprise as he suddenly noticed something else. There, on his own hand wrapped around Ciri, he saw the answer. Geralt, in the drawing, was wearing the exact same ring.

* * *

If the steward of the temple in Oxenfurt had found it strange that a Witcher had made his way to the Poet’s Corner, he didn’t show it. Geralt knelt down in front of Jaskier’s grave, grateful that the area was bereft of admiring students and tourists. There, on the tomb, were words he was now awfully familiar with, although slightly adapted. In the harsh stone, the phrase

_Loving is the most beautiful thing I have ever done_

was etched. Geralt rummaged in his pocket, taking out a single, silver ring. “Silver,” he whispered, as he placed it against the ridge where the gravestone touched the ground, pressing against it. He watched as the ring soldered itself to the stone, a spell courtesy of Yennefer so Geralt could be sure it would never be removed. It was almost invisible against the grey grave. “Silver,” he repeated. “To keep away monsters.” After a moment of silence, the white-haired Witcher turned and left, the sun shining through a stained window reflecting on his own silver ring, in remembrance for the bard who had loved him and followed him till the last of his days.

**Author's Note:**

> “Listen, then, Jane Eyre, to your sentence: to-morrow, place the glass before you, and draw in chalk your own picture, faithfully, without softening one defect; omit no harsh line, smooth away no displeasing irregularity; write under it, ‘Portrait of a Governess, disconnected, poor, and plain.’
> 
> “Afterwards, take a piece of smooth ivory—you have one prepared in your drawing-box: take your palette, mix your freshest, finest, clearest tints; choose your most delicate camel-hair pencils; delineate carefully the loveliest face you can imagine; paint it in your softest shades and sweetest lines, according to the description given by Mrs. Fairfax of Blanche Ingram; remember the raven ringlets, the oriental eye;—What! you revert to Mr. Rochester as a model! Order! No snivel!—no sentiment!—no regret! I will endure only sense and resolution. Recall the august yet harmonious lineaments, the Grecian neck and bust; let the round and dazzling arm be visible, and the delicate hand; omit neither diamond ring nor gold bracelet; portray faithfully the attire, aërial lace and glistening satin, graceful scarf and golden rose; call it ‘Blanche, an accomplished lady of rank.’
> 
> “Whenever, in future, you should chance to fancy Mr. Rochester thinks well of you, take out these two pictures and compare them: say, ‘Mr. Rochester might probably win that noble lady’s love, if he chose to strive for it; is it likely he would waste a serious thought on this indigent and insignificant plebeian?’”
> 
> -
> 
> Jane Eyre, Chapter XVI. By Charlotte Brontë.


End file.
